


Conjunction

by hydianway



Category: Marvel (Comics), Young Avengers
Genre: F/F, Spies & Secret Agents, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 10:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4956484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydianway/pseuds/hydianway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate meets America at a ball in the 23rd century. They are both time travellers, working toward the same goal-- to save the world, one way or another, piece by piece of constantly shifting history or future-- and they hit it off instantly, albeit cautiously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conjunction

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leebyunghuns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leebyunghuns/gifts).



> sorry this is super, super late, i've been completely bogged down with university for the past few months, but hopefully you like it anyway!!

Timing is a funny thing— Kate’s heard it said often enough, in the wake of other people’s failed love affairs, the type that skim by on time borrowed from circumstance but always feel like they could have been more, or the other ones that will forever rest in maybes and what-ifs, chemical flame lit between two lives and then never the chance to see if it would catch, burn itself into something more steady.

Timing is a funny thing; maybe next time, or in another life.

Still, it doesn’t make it any less true, and Kate would know— she’s a time traveller, given to a certain affinity for that sort of thing.

Or, well. She works as a time traveller, at least. She’s not gifted that way, not like some people are, the skill of leaping decades, centuries, millennia, backwards and forwards and sideways coming as naturally as swimming does to most if the population, but Kate has good technology and an even better instinct for danger, so she ends up doing alright for herself regardless.

It isn’t always fun, and it certainly isn’t as glamorous, as a lifestyle, as all the glossy brochures for the Trans-Temporal Training Academy would make it out to be, but the work she does pays the bills, and she gets to see rather more of the world than your average person stuck in a tower block so you're hardly likely to find her complaining.

She’s on assignment in Nouvelle Bohême in the 23rd century when she meets America. It's a simple find-and-retrieve on an illegally smuggled 52nd century weapon, that her higher-ups reckon might be about to be used to incite further territorial dispute between the États Nouveaux du Nord and the États de l’Est, and she's at a ball at the time, posing as the second cousin of the Duke of somewhere-or-other and dressed to the nines in the towering heights of 23rd century fashion.

(Kate might have been lying a little when she said the lifestyle wasn’t anywhere near as glamorous as they made it look on the Academy advertising. Sometimes it is, and more. Still, she's sure she isn’t the only one who'd tell you that no amount of fancy dress would ever make up for the completely bizarre amount of time your average Undercover had to spend in the sewerage systems of various cities every year).

Kate is posing as aristocracy, so she’s not exactly shocked, though she might be a little offended, the last vestiges of her long-fought upper-class snobbery coming to the fore, when one of the waitstaff crashes into her with a brusque 'watch it, princess!' and vanishes off into the crowd with her tray of champagne flutes a second later.

There’s something about this woman though, more than a careless waiter, sharp-tongued and with enough hair to be the envy of any debutante this side of the Trench, something quiet, strange-familiar, carried in the air around her body.

Kate gets it a minute later, as she spots the woman again through the crowd— she’s not from here in the same way Kate is. The strangeness-familiarity she feels is recognition; of the almost-scent of flux and atom closeness, time in rapid transmission; a sense of elsewhere and as much else _when_. The woman is another time traveller.  

Kate’s breath catches in her throat. She’d not been given information about another agent working in the same area, and outside agencies or freelancers don’t tend to be good news for her; they muddy the waters, get in the way of things.

She needs to find out who the woman is, and what she wants, quickly, before it interferes with her assignment.

Kate gets her chance as the party’s breaking up, hours after she’d finally gotten in touch with her other contact on the ground— another guest, a young noblewoman with a vested interest in keeping the peace between États, as well as an encyclopaedic knowledge of any and all illegal arms trading within a hundred kilometre radius of the city.

Groups of people are drifting off across the lawns under the dim glow of softened artificial lights and others trickling through the gates at the end of the driveway, slipping into sleek cars with doors held open by chauffeurs. Kate knows she has a Ferrari waiting for her somewhere down the line, waiting to take her back to the nice hotel in the centre of town with a driver who’s willing turn a blind eye to whatever shady dealings Kate’s got to involve herself in. 

The ballroom is almost empty of guests, only a few groups of stragglersThe waitstaff are still around though, cleaning up the genteel debris left over from the party.

She corners the woman as she’s collecting up champagne flutes from a table next to the south windows, scooping them up onto a tray at her elbow. She’s very graceful, Kate thinks, or maybe it’s just the line of her shoulders under the neat lines of her suit. 

‘Hi,’ Kate says, stopping just beside a pot plant a few feet from the table.

The woman turns to face her, blinks once or twice like she might be a little shocked— Kate can't quite get a read on her. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’ she says, close to the very picture of politeness. 

‘You need to work on your waitress act,’ says Kate, deciding to cut to the chase, if still in a fairly roundabout way. She's not quite sure how to proceed here; they'd never been given any advice for broaching the subject of time travel with other unrelated parties. 

The woman frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Waitressing for these people isn’t your job any more than I’m a Duchess,’ Kate says. ‘You’re a time traveller.’

The woman places the tray on the table, and folds her arms across her chest to plant her feet more solidly on the ground. It’s a firm stance, not quite threatening but not quite comfortable either. She gives Kate an appraising look, one eyebrow tilted upwards. 

‘So where are you from, then?’ she says. ‘And what do you want with me?’

‘I’m with the Agency,’ Kate says. ‘It was the thirty-second century, last I was back, but that doesn't really— you know. I don’t want anything from you except to know what you’re doing here.’

‘I’m freelance,’ says the woman. ‘Well, I don’t get paid, but— whatever. I’m here because something’s about to go down, and I want to be around when it does.’

‘Same,’ Kate says. ‘Except I am getting paid. You Gifted?’ she asks.

The woman nods. ‘Jumped the first time when I was nine. Haven't stopped since.’ She relaxes her stance a little, still tense around the shoulders but less outwardly defensive. ‘You? And what’s your name, princess?’

‘Not a bit,’ Kate says. ‘And I’m not a princess either, I told you that. Call me Kate.’ She stretches out a hand for the woman to shake. The woman ignores it.

‘America,’ she says.

‘What?’ says Kate. ‘The old nor’western continent?’

The woman rolls her eyes. ‘My name, princess. I’m called America.’

‘Oh,’ says Kate. ‘Right.’

They stand in silence for a few moments, halfway between awkward and outright hostile. America has a very strong jaw, Kate notices, and full lips given to a slight pout. It gives her a stubborn look, even more now when she’s playing tough. It suits her, Kate thinks; she’s always found uncompromising to be a good look on a woman. Not that she’s thinking like that right now; it really isn’t the time.

‘So about that shit that’s about to go down,’ America says. ‘I’m guessing you know more about it than I do, and I want in. I’ve got a certain amount of interest, see, in making sure it all goes to plan.’

Kate pauses. ‘I’m not really—’

America rolls her eyes. ‘I don’t want to know about your regulations, princess. There’s a bomb, right? And unless the Agency is some kind of despotic ethical disaster zone, we don’t want anyone to use it, especially not in this century, especially not on this continent, especially not right now.’

Kate opens her mouth to speak, but America cuts her off.

‘We want the same thing. Like I said, vested interest. Tell me how I can help. Unless your bosses really are a despotic ethical disaster zone, in which case I guess I’ll be knocking you out and taking it for myself.’

Kate smirks. ‘I’d like to see you try.’

‘I could take you,’ says America. She gestures to Kate’s feet. ‘No way you could fight in those.’

Kate looks down; mile high stiletto heels and enough gauzy straps to confuse a webspinner. 

‘I could stab you with one of the heels?’ she suggests. ‘But, fair point.’

It’s America’s turn to smirk now, and— is she checking her out? Kate blinks to clear her head of the thought. Now is still _really_ not the time.

‘About that bomb,’ says America, shifting her weight to the other side of her body.

Kate lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and pauses for a second before making the decision to trust America. It flies in the face of most of her training and all her more general common sense, but her gut tells her that America can be trusted, and Kate’s always had a lot of faith in her gut instincts.

‘Right,’ she says, glancing behind them as it occurs to her to check for eavesdroppers. There are two waiters on the other side of the room, clearing up wine glasses and leftover canapes, but they don’t look too interested, and Kate knows the room isn’t under overly strict surveillance— there are holo-cameras in the ceiling and windows, but no devices to record sound. It’d be madness to try, anyway, with that many overly chatty people expected to attend the ball, to expect to be able to gain anything from it.

‘I’m staying in a hotel in the third quadrant,’ she says. ‘The Grande. You know where that is? When you finish, meet me there and we’ll discuss this further.’

‘Sure,’ says America. ‘And don’t worry about the waiters; they were looking over here a bit before but I think they think you’re trying to solicit me, not plotting the theft of a highly illegal weapon.’

Kate lets out a little laugh despite herself, and smirks up at America. ‘And you’re coming to my hotel room after. So they’re gonna assume the soliciting worked.’

America shrugs. ‘Whatever,’ she says. 

‘Ask for Ms. Bishop’s room at the desk,’ says Kate. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

She walks away with a flirty wave, the sway of her hips exaggerated under the smooth silk of her dress and a smile playing at her lips. _Oh god_ , she thinks as she walks out the door. This is ridiculous. Playing flirt with a rogue time traveller, letting her in on a mission? It’s bound to end in disaster.

Kate really wishes she believed it even a little, or that she cared a bit more, but right now she’s got the weird pulling-butterflies sensation at the bottom of her stomach— the ones that come along with the expression Cassie used to call her crush face, and inevitably end with someone’s heart breaking clean in two. Sometime’s it’s the other person’s. Other times, it’s Kate’s.

But she’s older now than she was then, and this is fine, and it isn’t a date she’s going on anyway, it’s a mildly illegal (if also kind of government-sanctioned, in a round-about, confusingly-timed way) mission to steal a _very_ illegal and dangerous weapon.

In the car on the way home, Kate reflects that ‘weapons heist’ sounds a lot better than most of the dates she’s been on in her life, and resolves to set aside several extra hours a week to sort out her priorities and also maybe do some actual, non-work-related, socialising.

Back at the hotel, she carefully removes her shoes and dress from the party to change into a nondescript cleaner’s uniform, and scrubs her face of makeup. A slight glittery sheen remains, layer of sparkly eyeshadow stretched thin across her whole face, giving her an almost unearthly glow under the soft lights of the bathroom mirror. It’s odd, after seeing her face in all its heavily made up glory in about a hundred mirrors and panes of reflective glass that evening, to catch a glimpse of herself without 

She’s just a little on edge, nerves edging towards staticky with anticipation, so she sits down at the end of the bed to watch the tv, and to wait for America.

Kate’s just starting to understand the thread of an episode of whatever the twenty third century version of _Coronation Street_ is (she has a quick look at the menu screen— apparently the twenty third century version of _Coronation Street_ is still just _Coronation Street_ , a few more holograms in the mix and a radically updated set, but the same show Kate last watched on assignment somewhere in— Australia? Canada? in 1972) when there’s a knock at the door.

She jumps a little, and flicks the remote to show her the view of the corridor directly outside her room. America’s standing in the corridor with arms crossed and and looking around herself, tapping her fingers against her forearm. She’s not wearing her waiter's uniform anymore, having apparently traded it in for an outfit based to what could be considered an embarrassing degree around the stars and stripes of the old US flag.

A bit on the nose, she thinks, with the name, but Kate would be lying if she said she didn't think America looked good with it. Her shorts are very short, adds Kate's brain, probably trying to be helpful. There is a lot of thigh on show.

'Hi,' says Kate.

‘Nice place you’re staying,’ America says, wiping her boots on the little mat by the door of the hotel room. ‘Does the Agency pay for it? Maybe I’ll try sign up, next time I’m round those parts.’

‘Yep,’ says Kate, smiling. ‘Sometimes they stick you in shitty youth hostels though, it’s a bit hit and miss.’

America wrinkles her nose and shrugs. ‘I’ve stayed worse places.’

‘Haven’t we all,’ says Kate. ‘Come in.’

‘So what’s the plan,’ asks America, as Kate shuts the door.

‘You don’t mess around, do you?’ says Kate.

‘Ah, what’s the point,’ says America. ‘We can chat later if we need to, but this one’s time sensitive, right?’

‘It’s not— I mean, the sooner the better, really, but my source doesn’t think there’ll even be a risk of it till tomorrow evening at the earliest.’

America bites her lip. ‘Alright,’ she says. ‘I have— not exactly _good_ reason to believe, but some certain grounds for suspicion, that the um— I think it’s going to be earlier than that,’ says America. ‘Not _necessarily_ tonight, but earlier than expected. There’s— as I understand it, one of the factions involved is more volatile than planned for.’

‘Right,’ says Kate, recalculating in her head the need for quick action. America— well, she wasn’t exactly a trusted source, but Kate’s not about to fuck around on where lives could be at stake. 

‘Here,’ she says, holding out a pile of spare clothes, ‘put these on, and we’re off. I’ll tell you the plan on the way.’

‘I trust you know what you’re doing,’ America says, quirking her mouth up at one side. ‘It’s a bit short notice.'

‘The plan is pretty much foolproof, in and out,’ says Kate. ‘Simple, as well. The Agency isn’t fond of risk.’

America nods. ‘I’ll just—’ she gestures towards the bathroom with the hand holding the clothes.

Kate nods in return, and walks over to the suitcase where she’s packed all her gear. There isn’t much she needs, for this one— when she told America the plan was foolproof, she really did mean it. They only needed to be for the most part inconspicuous, and for one of them to be able to walk in, get through the moderate security (well, moderate by the standards Kate’s seen— the locks on the door are cutting edge for this time period) on one of the doors to a safe room, and walk out again with the bomb, deceptively compact and rather innocuous looking, stashed in a bag.

The security around the building, personnel-wise, is operating at its usual lax standards, by Kate’s best guess an attempt not to draw attention to the idea that anything out of the ordinary is happening, or being held in the building. 

She’s planning on leaving America as a lookout at her preferred exit. It’s just the main entrance to the building, but there’s nothing like plain sight for a hiding place if you can swing it, and Kate would like to make sure she can.

They take a taxi across town to a few blocks from the target building, and walk the rest of the way, hands in pockets and nerves hissing at the back of Kate's throat. America looks calm, glancing around at the tall buildings to either side of them, a tourist out on an evening stroll or a local maybe, enjoying their city.

They walk into the building, smile tightly at the desk clerks in the lobby, and the retrieval goes off without a hitch, right up until the point where Kate decides someone walking behind them looks suspicious, and she pulls America with her to round the next corner, and uses her favourite little magnetic unlocking device and foldable lever to prise the top off the manhole she’d made a note of before leaving, in case of a need for a quick, stealthy getaway. 

America looks a little startled to be invited down for an impromptu tour of the city underground, but Kate is much too used to this sort of thing by now and hardly surprised at all to. Although even she has to admit that trying to get back to the hotel with the help of what might have been an up-to-date map of the sewers two hundred ago, and makes no reference to the city above at all, is not exactly how she wanted to spend the rest of her evening.

‘It’s not so bad, though,’ she says to America at one point. ‘Like, in the grand and sweeping scheme of sewers across time, twenty third century western Europe is definitely in the top ten sewers you want to get maybe-lost in. Number one is probably— ’

‘What,’ says America. ‘How many sewers have you been in?’

Kate shrugs. ‘Enough. Hey, tell you what— when we get back to the hotel, you can have first shower.’

‘ _If_ we get back to the hotel, you mean, and we don’t become like— an urban legend about the ghosts of the pipes or something. And do you— mind? Can I stay at—’

‘You’re definitely staying the night,’ says Kate. ‘I wouldn’t turn you out on the streets after this.’ She grins, and looks sideways at America. ‘I’m not that kind of girl.’

America snorts. ‘Good to hear.’

The location device in Kate’s breast pocket bleeps twice, and Kate grins. ‘Hey, looks like we weren’t so lost after all. And I think there’s an exit— yep, right over there, ladder.’

‘Well done,’ says America. ‘I didn’t know you had it in you.’

Kate rolls her eyes. ‘You were even more lost than I was,’ she says. ‘You can’t talk.’

‘Just because I was more lost doesn’t mean you _weren’t_ lost,’ America says, grinning at her.

The clerk at the desk gives them a funny look as they walk back into the hotel, but he doesn’t comment on the fact it’s well past three am, 

They take the lift up to Kate’s room, and America disappears into the bathroom as soon as they get in the door, leaving Kate standing dirty and out-of-place on the expensive carpet in the main room.

Kate as she waits for America to finish off in the shower, stripping off her clothes from the mission and making sure the bomb is stored safely in the lightweight hypersafe the Agency had sent her with to contain it. She wonders if the hotel would mind if she mucked up one of their nice bathrobes by wrapping it around herself. She’s not really that dirty; just a little covered in sweat, and she thinks she can smell something of the underground dank and human waste on her skin left over from the sewers, but it’s hardly tragic.

She decides she doesn't care if she mucks up the bathrobe, and puts it on to sit at one of the uncomfortable hard backed chairs at the front of the room to send a message to the agent who’s in charge of getting the bomb back to where it belongs.

_Mission successful. A54 acquired and secure._

_Excellent_ , comes the reply barely a minute later. _Report to drop off @ 0800 hours._

_Roger that_ , Kate sends back, then: _You alright, Jess?_

_Never been better,_ Jess replies. _The twenty third century is fast food at its peak._

_Their sewers are pretty good too_ , says Kate.

_Again??_

Kate sends her a row of frowny faces and an eyeroll, and Jess counters with a motion capture of her own face. There’s the distinct impression of fast food chain strip-lighting and overbright colour scheme in the background, and in the foreground Jess is rolling her own eyes back at her and grinning. 

Kate sends a picture of a hand making a rude gesture, and then _Do they really still have McDonalds round here?_

_Yep_ , says Jess. _Are the five star hotels alright? And the balls, what about them, can’t forget about your ballllll._

_I like the early 3000s best for balls,_ Kate sends back. She hears the water shut off in the bathroom.

_Do you now,_ says Jess, with a little wriggly eyebrow face. 

_Fuck off,_ Kate writes _. Anyway, got to go shower now, talk to you later._

She stashes the phone in the cabinet next to the bed, and stands up just as America walks out the bathroom door.

_Gnah_ , goes Kate's brain, and short-circuits. 

In general, she considers herself to be a fairly well put together person, not the type to be reduced to a humiliating puddle of incoordination in the face of someone she finds attractive. However, nothing on earth could have prepared her for the sight of America, dripping wet and wrapped in only a towel, stepping out of the bathroom in a picturesque cloud of steam.

‘Ah!’ she says out loud, and blinks as she tries to stop herself watching a bead of liquid that’s trailing over the hollows of America’s collarbone and down her chest. ‘You’re finished!’

‘All yours, princess,’ America says. She gestures to the bathroom, and Kate thinks she feels the bottom drop out of her brain. She blinks again, tears her eyes away from America’s calves to look at her face. America is smirking. It doesn’t help.

‘Thanks!’ Kate says, and jumps into the bathroom with greatest possible haste.

When she emerges, America is lounging on the bed, dressed in her stars and stripes again and flicking through tv channels without any great interest.

Kate dresses with her back to America, half-hoping that she’s not imagining the gaze she thinks she can feel prickling at her spine from time to time, and tries not to make it too obvious that she cares, then walks over to the mini fridge in the corner, coming up with a beer and a can of soda. 

She holds them up to America with an enquiring look on her face. America points to the beer; Kate throws her the bottle across the room, puts and they settle into the sofas. _Coronation Street_ is still running on the tv, and Kate wonders if the people who have to film and edit and act on every episode ever get a break. That is one helluva lot of television to be made right there. 

‘That wasn’t very climactic,’ says America, after a while. ‘The job, I mean, not the— revenge hovercraft heist or whatever that was’— she gestures to the tv with a wave of her hand— ‘are you sure we’ve really done the job?’

Kate shrugs. ‘We ended up in the sewers, didn’t we? I’d say that was pretty climactic.’

‘No, I mean like— in, out, get lost walking home— that’s it?’

‘You don’t actually get a lot of car chases,’ says Kate, ‘if that’s what you mean. But yep, that’s it. I’ve got a drop off tomorrow to Jess, and then I think I’m jumping out of here whenever.’

‘I tend to go in for more drama, I suppose,’ America says. ‘But I don’t have all the fancy gear you do, or half the intel, before charging in.’

‘Sorry to disappoint,’ says Kate. ‘Do you really do this kind of thing, sometimes?’

‘I don’t hang out in hotel rooms with pretty rich girls that often,’ says America, pauses for a moment as if to watch Kate’s reaction, ‘if that’s what you mean. But I try to help where I can, if I can. It’s— 

She takes a sip of her beer, and they sit in contemplation for a few minutes, the wire thin electrical hum and light-movement of the screen making for an almost eerie backdrop to their silence, the cool, flickering light playing over America’s hair in strange, wild patterns and making the furniture look like it's been flattened out, made unreal.

‘Since I can help, why wouldn’t I. But I’ve got something I want to know about you, actually,’ says America, after a while.

Kate nods. _Go ahead._

‘If you’re not really a princess, how come you’re so good at acting like one?’

Kate inspects her left-hand fingernails. ‘My parents were rich,’ she says. ‘Not titled, admittedly— but they were very rich.’

‘Were?’

Kate blinks up at her, then pauses.

‘Sorry,’ says America, pushing her hair behind her ears. ‘I—’ She clears her throat. ‘My moms are dead, as well. ’

Kate smiles, mouth tense. ‘It’s fine. My mom’s dead, but my dad’s just—’ she bites into her lip— ‘he signed off on an audit to have me killed last year; I haven’t spoken to him since. And I don’t plan on it for the future.’

‘Fair enough.’ America lets a breath whistle out from between her lips. ‘Hey, sorry for—’

‘No problem,’ says Kate. ‘You weren’t to know.’

They sit in silence for another minute or so, strained space between them.

‘So where are you from?’ Kate asks. ‘It’s just—’

‘Utopia,’ says America, and smiles at Kate’s slight frown. ‘Eighty-fourth century breakaway from the Greater Solar Republic. On one of Saturn’s more well-terraformed moons, and one of the few that escaped the— you heard of the Drought?’

Kate nods.

‘Yeah.’ She takes a sip of her beer, and frowns down at her hand against the duvet. ‘It was invaded, about a decade later. I haven’t been back since.’

Kate winces. ‘I’m sor—’

‘You weren’t to know.’ America echoes her words from before. She looks particularly intently at the screen, and Kate can see the tension in her fingers, curving around to grip the covers. 

‘Well hey, now we’ve both stepped in it, at least it’s all in the clear, right?’ Kate says, trying for levity. It falls a little flat, but it’s better than nothing. 

America looks at her sideways, tries for a lopsided grin. ‘Right.’

'All up from here on out,' says Kate, and returns the smile. 

'Good to know,’ America says. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’ she asks. 

‘What?’ says Kate. 

‘I thought we could start with some less, um, intensely personal questions,’ says America.

‘Purple,’ says Kate, gesturing to her clothes. 

‘No shit,’ says America, and laughs. 

‘You asked!’ 

‘I didn’t think it would be so— obvious!’ 

‘Oh, fuck off,’ says Kate, but she’s smiling. ‘What’s yours, then?’

‘I don’t have a favourite colour,’ says America. 

‘That’s cheating,’ says Kate. 

America shrugs. ‘Hey, how about—’ She cuts off and bites her lip, looking to the other side of the room. 

‘What?’

America shakes her head. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ She brings her eyes back to Kate’s face, and Kate's sure she doesn’t imagine the way she draws them up from her lips to meet her eyes. ‘You—’

‘I think—’ Kate is distracted now by the way one of America’s curls is falling across her face, corkscrewing down to brush over her cheekbone. She’s twisted around towards Kate, leaning in and her face is much closer than it was a second ago. Kate blinks, looks down to America’s lips, and she’s the one to close the gap between their mouths. 

The kiss is soft, not hesitant, but also not entirely assured, and America pulls back after a moment, to look at Kate almost like she's surprised. 

Then she smiles, and Kate's internal organs must do some kind of weird twist, or jump, and she feels suddenly a little lightheaded. She smiles back, after a second. America blinks— maybe she's felt the same shock to her insides of— nothing concrete, yet, quite, but a step into whatever potential— for them, has flared to life in between their bodies, minds, mouths. 

Kates thinks it's a little bit of a miracle, their meeting, here and now, but she doesn't know— they'll have to go their separate ways soon and she doesn't know if she wants to—

'We should probably get some sleep,' says Kate, and smiles at America's pout. She kisses her again. America brightens just slightly, like she can't help it, like Kate is sunlight and she's the bright face of a flower. The feeling, Kate thinks, is mutual. 'There'll be time in the morning,' she says.  

America nods, but she frowns and kisses Kate again, a little more direction this time, making it hers, and Kate has to suppress a sigh as America drags at her lip with her teeth as she pulls away. 

'Night,' says Kate.

'Night,' America replies. 

They fall asleep side by side, or at least arranged sort of semi-coherently around each others’ bodies in the way of unfamiliar shared space. 

America hogs the covers on her side of the bed; Kate makes a note of it, unsure of quite why, given the improbability of a repeat occurrence, but she doesn’t want to forget. She sleeps heacily too, and later than Kate does: when she gets up to go for the drop off at seven hundred, America is still asleep. The sun’s just cleared the horizon, rays of light just scraping through in between the looming bulk of the city buildings, illuminating passersby on the streets below, tiny bright coloured ants of people from the heights of the hotel window.

She wakes up just before Kate walks out the door, and asks her: ‘Why do you have to drop the bomb back to the Agency, anyway?’ as she pushes herself upright in amongst a nest of blankets. ‘Can’t you just, I mean, don’t you think it should be launched into the blackest reaches of space and detonated, before it does any damage to anyone?’

Kate frowns. ‘I kind of assumed that’s what they’d do,’ she said. ‘But I mean—’

‘Maybe they will,’ says America. ‘I just get twitchy.’

‘Fair enough,’ says Kate.

America grins without much humour. ‘I wouldn’t call it fair, really,’ she says. ‘But— yeah.’

‘See you later,’ Kate says. 

‘See you,’ she thinks she hears America reply as she runs out the door.

The drop off is simple; she chats to Jess in the middle of a crowded street, and hands her the safe in its bag under the pretext of a hardware loan for her office job. 

She gets coffee and breakfast at a cafe on one of the side streets on the way back to the hotel, but when she gets there, opens the door to the room and smiles into the imagined warmth, America is gone.

She stands there a few seconds, holding the coffee tray in one hand and two croissants in the other. Then she puts them down on the desk, and picks her coffee up to keep her company as she throws her clothes into a bag. 

Well that’s that then, Kate thinks, trying to ignore the hollowed-out sensation the thought leaves in her stomach, the noticeable emptiness America’s departure has left in the hotel room. She packs up the last few items of her gear and prepares for the jump back to whenever the Agency is for her this time. 

Maybe it just wasn’t meant to work out like that, she thinks on the way out. Timing is a funny thing.

 


End file.
